


Iscariot (Biondeggiare)

by ThatSeance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, Azazel's Special Children (Supernatural), Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Blood, Demonic Possession, Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Grey Sam Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mild Gore, Moral Dilemmas, Origin Story, POV Third Person, Princes of Hell | Yellow-Eyed Demons (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, he deserves to be happy but on a throne y'know?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSeance/pseuds/ThatSeance
Summary: Perhaps, it was an accident. Perhaps, he knew this was how it would end; eyes blazing and hand gripping the demon's heart. Maybe this time, he'll learn to put the soul back in before the whole thing rots.-Sam wins Azazel's game. There's bigger powers at play than just a little blood. Maybe he can tip over the board.He might not like the title, but maybe he will be the boy king of hell. He's always been the underdog anyways.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	1. I. Orsus

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this Boy King Of Hell stirring in my mind for the past couple of weeks after a few very thought provoking tumblr posts. Thank you to all the people who put more Boy King of Hell posts on my dash than usual.
> 
> I'm trying to make Sam have a realistic transition, but of course, liberties are taken. As well as just the general canon of spn. Can't have fun without changing some things, huh?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_ And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. Ecclesiastes 12:7 _

The cold metal thumps against the dirt beneath him, finding its home in the sickly mess pooling beneath his feet. It drips from between his fingers and onto the makeshift halo. The world echoes quietly in his ears, the rotten, wooden doors no longer creaking with half-hidden ghosts and the towering trees no longer fostering blackened eyes waiting for their chance to lunge. It settles somewhere between peace and tension, somewhere dark inside his gut as the man surveys the body before him.

His skull was dented inwards at an odd angle, skin scraped off by the force of the hit. He lay, arms twisted at an odd angle, in the dirt, and did not get up. He  _ couldn't _ get up. His glassy eyes found their home in Sam's soul, twisted and tangled in the barbed vines that held the rest of his sins. 

The silence held him captive. Now, it was just Sam, God, and-

"Congratulations, Sammy." The clapping echoes into the very corners of the abandoned town. "I knew you were my favorite for a reason."

Sam jerks around, teeth barred and eyes flashing. "Let me out of your fucking game."

Azazel chuckles, lifting up his hand as if he were placating a child or a wild animal. Every instinct in Sam tells him to lunge forward, tear through his chest and puncture his heart, but he shoves those thoughts down. Instead, he waits, as Azazel asks, "Aw, Sam, so… testy. Don't you want to know your reward?"

"You told me before. Leading an army, isn't it?" Sam sneers. "I would rather die."

"Would you?" Azazel strolls past Sam to the body on the ground, peering down at it with thinly veiled disgust. His shoe gently nudges the side of the man's head, bringing the depression created in his skull farther into the light. "I'm sure it could be arranged. Of course, it would be a disappointment; You were my number one pick from the start, Sammy. You have such potential. Still, if you insist. We'll have to start over again, a new batch of potential leaders-"

Something scratchy climbs up Sam's throat. He forces it out, " _ Children _ ?"

"It would set us back by a decade or two, but still, we can afford-"

"If I agree-" Sam interrupts. Azazel's eyes glow as they move up to meet with Sam's. It feels like condemnation, like he's found a path he can never retreat from. It feels like betrayal. It feels like he has crawled into the lion's den. "If I agree. No more kids will be given… blood. Okay?"

Azazel's grin, all teeth and rotting cores, blood dripping from the end of his tongue, imprints itself in Sam's mind. He concedes, "There would be no need, if you agreed."

He can still feel the blood, drying on his hands, crusting around his finger tips. He can still see the man-  _ Jake _ \- lying on the ground. He closes his eyes. There is no going back; he is taking his first step on a long descent to hell. "Alright. Okay. I'll be your- your  _ figurehead _ ."

Azazel leans forward. "Oh Sam, you misunderstand me." The yellow shines in the darkness. "You'll be  _ so much more _ than just that."

With that, the journey begins. With that, Sam misses Dean skidding into the muddy town, wild eyes and a tight grip on a machete, only to meet the blank eyes of a corpse.

* * *

He wishes it looked like wine. That would make this easier; a simple glass in an empty motel, broken pieces of glass scattered across the room ignored in favor of rich, deceptively red wine that stains his mouth and teeth. Instead, however, it looks as if someone had dyed rotten milk a deep, deep red, until it looked almost black, and stirred in thickener for good measure. It's almost funny, for a moment, because it feels as if he really is about to drink the blood of Jesus during the last supper, but it dims quickly in the knowledge that it is the exact opposite of that. Instead, his stomach churns, and he wonders what else he must sacrifice in order to save the world.

"This, well, is the first step to unlocking your true potential. You always had aptitude, but this will let you do things you never even thought possible. Just think of the power you'll have- trust me, it'll feel good." Azazel chuckles, as if what he said was particularly funny. "Now, Sammy, drink."

Sam bites out a quick "it's Sam", before reaching out a shaking hand to the glass. The liquid sloshes slightly, heavy and thick, which makes him feel as if he's going to collapse onto the ground. Irrationally, he can feel the way in which his own blood streams through his arms and up to his head and down to his stomach and wonders who the concoction in front came from; if they, too, had died with the same blank expression as Jake.

_ There are children, innocent children, who are out there, who will suffer if you don't drink this, their blood on your hands or this blood in your- _

_ It's thick _ , is his first thought, which should be obvious, but it didn't click until it hit his tongue. It's thick, and it's clumpy, likely due to its room temperature state. His body immediately reacts against his will, blood trickling down his chin as he heaves once, twice, his stomach rejecting the foreign liquid. His body screams  _ wrong, this is wrong _ , but he forces it down. There seems like a never ending stream, flowing down his throat until he feels as if he couldn't possibly consume more, before the glass is suddenly empty, coated red with the remnants of the liquid. 

The glass shatters among impact with the wall. Sam heaves a breath, wiping at his chin as his vision swirls. Azazel raises an eyebrow at the display, but otherwise says nothing.

One second there is nothing except for Sam's churning stomach, and then the next, he can  _ feel _ it. It crawls slowly throughout his body, down his arms and into his fingertips, trickling into his toes and his brain and his eyes. His body screams at him once again, twisting as it adjusts to the foreign addition to his blood stream. He's tainting his body. Sam peels his eyes open to stare up at the ceiling, mind desperately grasping at the events that were unfolding. He's  _ impure _ . He was always impure, but this, this feeling, it crosses a line that no one can come back from. He feels on the verge of hysterics. If he were to pray now, would anyone even hear, or would they pass their eyes over him, knowing him to be a  _ monster _ ?

The power (he hesitates to call it this, but there is no better word for it, this electricity that stirs inside him) flows through his veins, his heart beating so fast it threatens to leap out of his chest. However, it just continues to pump the demon blood to every corner of his body, until he can feel himself thrumming with energy. It's a strange feeling, to suddenly feel more powerful than you've ever felt. Sam clenches his jaw as anger surfaces in his mind.

"Demon blood is a powerful conduit, isn't it?" Azazel speaks, stepping forward to appear in Sam's line of sight. "Now, all that anger you're feeling? That's good, we're gonna use that. You ready?" 

Sam's hand clenches at his side. "Sure."

"We'll start slow, hmm?" Azazel places a beer bottle on the table in front of him. "Shatter it without touching it."

"That's it?" Sam glares over at the demon, lifting an eyebrow. "No helpful advice? No friendly 'lift your hand like those superhero comics'? I just get a 'shatter it'?"

Azazel shrugs. "You're the one with the power, Sam."

_ Untested ground _ , his mind unhelpfully supplies as he turns back towards the bottle. It appears to be a normal empty bottle, the label half torn off until only streaks of white were left. He tilts his head to the side, glances back and forth between Azazel and the bottle, before slowly lifting his hand out in front of him, fingers splayed out. He feels like an  _ idiot _ . Something inside him thrums against his skull, pushes his hand forward. It feels like a different entity inside of him, yanking his mind to a thousand different places, and yet it's him, him that is-

Sam flicks his wrist to the left. The bottle flies off the table and directly into Azazel's stomach, shattering upon impact. The demon doubles over, clutching his abdomen, small droplets of blood forming around his fingers. A strange sense of triumph wells up in Sam, and his fingers twitch against his sides.

Azazel straightens up and gives him a toothy grin. "Well done, Sammy. Seems like you still got that fightin' spirit in you, huh? That's good. We can use that, hmm?" The front of his shirt is stained with blood. "I think you're ready for the next challenge."

"Challenge?" Sam laughs. It feels foreign to his throat and his ears as he thinks about all the challenges he'd been through at Azazel's hands that had left people for dead. "Is this your big plan? Test me, see if I'm a good enough soldier to lead your little demons?"

"Would you rather something bigger, better?" Azazel leans forward, staring deep into Sam's soul. "I see ambition in those eyes of yours, Sam Winchester. You think you're destined for something greater."

He wants to spit in this demon's face. He wants to grab hold of his face and twist- "If you call working with demons  _ greater _ , I can't wait until I hear your definition of power."

"We can skip a few steps. Get to the bigger picture. Only if you're up to it, of course. Or, maybe we should leave it to another generation?"

Gritting his teeth, Sam gives a jerky nod. He can't help but feel as if he's signed his soul off in some way, reaching up into a blackened tree and biting into the crisp, red apple. There's something burning and twisting inside of him (he has a suspicion, but he doesn't want to say it) that's telling him to go  _ farther _ . He has more people to save. If he can just make it through this little charade, he can find a way out, and he can get rid of this  _ demon _ once and for all. 

"Good. There's someone I want you to meet."

* * *

His first instinct is to compare her to Meg. He's only seen so many demons in his life, after all. Of course, there are striking similarities, between the red leather jacket to the blonde hair, but the comparison is inherently wrong; there's something about them that is completely different. He can't place a finger on it. It's like a gut instinct, simmering beneath his fingertips.

"Sam, meet Ruby. She's…. my personal assistant, one could say."

Ruby looks at Azazel like he's an idiot. "One  _ would _ say." Her eyes drift back over to Sam. "Heard you won Zel's little… game. How's it feel?"

Sam's eyes flash. "Like shit." 

A smirk stretches across her face. "Yeah, he's like that, isn't he? Could use a little lesson in gratitude, too-

"Alright, Alright, you've made your point. We have business." Azazel leans into Sam, mouth next to his ear, and even as Sam tries to lean away, the demon follows. "I want you to exorcise her."

His initial instinct is to scoff. He steps backwards, out of Azazel's grip, and says, "I don't have the-"

"You don't need it." Azazel smirks, once again, and Sam flicks his eyes away from the demon over to Ruby. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her eyebrow raises at him. He can't tell if she knows Azazel's plan or not, but the past few minutes makes him believe she probably does. She's cunning enough, surely. Azazel keeps talking over Sam's thoughts. "....The same way you did with the bottle. Just a little bit more of a…" He grunts, as if he were the one exerting any energy. "Squeeze. Got it? You did say you wanted lessons."

"Yeah." Sam mumbles, making eye contact with Ruby. It seems like an impossible thing to ask; she looks as human as he does. His mind, for a moment, wonders what she would do if he offered her help, a way out from Azazel's hell hole. If she would creep up the stairs back into the sunlight and find a way to  _ live _ . Clutching at this feeling, he reminds himself once again that he's here to save people, not destroy them. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, he doesn't want to hurt anyone-

Her eyes flicker solid black. Perhaps that's what did it, or maybe Sam knew deep down that he would attempt to do this regardless of her reaction. Because of course, there was valuable knowledge in the idea of exorcising a demon without even touching them. The practical uses were endless, as well as the possibilities beyond that. As much as he valued the copious amounts of information in Dad's journal or the few hunter-made books he's gone through in Bobby's house, nothing in those could compare to this. This was revolutionary. This could change the game.

His hand jerks out in front of him before he consciously thinks about it, acting upon its own will. Blood rushes up to his head and his thoughts jumble into a language he does not speak. It's on the tip of his tongue,  _ Carthago delen- _ but his mouth feels like lead as he twists his wrist ever so slightly, and then:  _ Squeeze _ .

At first, there's no reaction. Ruby tilts her head sideways, eyes still as black as the night, like a snake ready to lunge, and Sam can feel his palm burning as if he had stuck it directly into a fire. However, after a moment, she starts to cough, covering her mouth in an attempt to hide it, before she doubles over and drops to her knees. Blood drips from her lips before the smoke does: little whispers of black, sinking down to the ground and spreading out across the concrete. It's a strange feeling; there's a sensation around his fingers and wrist as if he were reaching inside of her, down her throat and into her very soul, yanking at the fringes of a thrashing, flayed mess. 

The proverbial tug-of-war could have lasted a few seconds or a few hours; Sam could hardly focus on anything but maintaining his grip on something that felt like water. Until finally, there's a sickening slap of flesh against concrete, and Ruby's body has gone still against the floor. It's like a sickening snap, the way Sam's body suddenly stumbles backwards, barely gaining enough balance to stay upright. It feels as if someone had shoved cotton balls up through his nose and into his brain. An ache appears behind his eyes. He blinks dumbly for a few seconds, trying to clear the edge of black around his eyes.

Azazel whistles out a long, low note somewhere from the sidelines. "Well, Sam, I gotta hand it to you, that was some impressive work you showed today. Taking out one of my top operatives? It's like you were destined for this."

Sam's ears twitch as he spits something to his left. The iron tang in his mouth makes him lean towards blood. " _ You _ did this."

The demon shrugs. "I'll take the credit for it, sure." There's a moments pause, as if he were considering something, sizing Sam up for the next slaughter. "Y'know? Just for you Sam, we'll speed things up a bit. How'd you like to meet a Prince of Hell?"

The information takes a few seconds to filter through his brain. "A…. Prince?"

"Exactly. Listen, I'm sure you feel all high and mighty, hopped up on your juice, but against a prince? Well, you'd be like a little lamb, squashed by a giant. Which is why we'll start small, build out way up. With their power, well, the opportunities are-"

"You want me to drink a Prince's blood," Sam interrupts with a half growl, vision growing ever darker. "You want me to kill the opposition."

Azazel snorts. "If you can call it opposition."

"This is insane." Sam wobbles on his feet as he steps backwards. "How long is this going to go on?"

A flash of yellow. The spotty black dots around the corners of Sam's eyes overtake his vision. His body burns as he tries to blink it away, panic growing as he continues to see nothing. He hears a groan, a female grown, and the scent of something burning, but he can't see it. There's something there, but he can't-

"Until destiny takes its course, Sammy."

With that, the world pitches forward and Sam loses control of all his senses, landing on the ground with the same thud that Ruby had just moments before. Azazel steps forward and leans over his body, eyes scouring his face.

"He doesn't know yet, does he?"

Azazel chuckles. "Which part?"

"Any of it."

"No. And he won't know. Not unless  _ he _ says so."

_ Then He took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. For this is My blood of the new covenant, which is shed for many for the remission of sins" Matthew 26:27-29 _


	2. II. Decadimento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's first trial: The first Prince of Hell, Ramiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've finally updated this! Yay! Sorry for such a long delay, I've forgotten just how much school sucks up my time. Regardless, here is the second chapter! Hopefully you enjoy, and kudos & comments are greatly appreciated.

_"And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both body and soul in hell"_

_Matthew 10:28_

* * *

They're holed up in an abandoned house somewhere in the middle of nowhere, with floors that let out eerie screeches after every step and boarded-up windows that only let in the slimmest amount of silver light. It's the quintessential hideout, with a special demon flair, judging by the browning splatters across the fire place. Still, in a sobering way, it makes him a little homesick.

Sam's knees are tucked up to his chest and his back is against the wooden bars of an old chair. He barely fits, with his heels just barely hanging on the edge of the chair, but he needs the comfort as his next words come out of his mouth. "What do I need to know about these princes of hell?"

"They're Lucifer's chosen. Lilith was first, but these.... they're the next in line."

"To what?"

Azazel's eyes glint. "The throne."

"So which one's in power now?"

"The eldest. The most loyal. He won't be our target, however."

Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Then who?"

"Ramiel." Azazel drifts over to the side of the room, where a shelf of oddities sits. "The... youngest. And, of course, the weakest. He's lived among humans for years, and I believe that has... tainted him."

"Tainted him? Humans?" Sam laughs, sardonic and wheezing. "He's the demon prince."

"You're right, wrong choice of wording. Let's see..." Azazel taps his chin as if he were thinking. "Perhaps it's more like... reverting back to his original form."

Sam sits up straighter. "Original form?"

"All princes of hell were humans at one point. Lucifer picked them specially for his mission. Twisted them to his image. Which means..." Azazel tosses a glass jar in Sam's direction, and Sam, all reflexes and no thought, catches it. "You need a boost, big boy."

His breath catches in his throat as he stares down at the black liquid, and it back up at him. He remembers burning veins and burning hands and the cool, chilly, relieving feeling of touching Ruby's essence.... The jar thuds against the wooden table next to him. "No way."

"Second thoughts? You remember what's at stake here, don't you?"

"What the hell are you having me do here, exactly?"

Azazel leans forward. "You wanna keep the world safe? Fine. This right here is how you do it. You may think you're in the wrong here, but you gotta look at the bigger picture. With this... eventually, you'll call the shots. You know what you can do with this kinda power? Anything. But first, we gotta get you there, and to do that..."

Sam grimaces. "I have to... drink prince's blood."

"A little bit more complicated than that, but you got the idea." Azazel gestures towards the table. "And to do that, you gotta get stronger. So, what's it gonna be?"

The glass of the jar feels warm in his palm, even though he's fairly certain it's been sitting on the rickety old shelf for a while. He knows this is a test, one that ends with him dead or worse than dead. Still, hesitation creeps up his back and around his head. The part of his blood that's thrashing back and forth, trying to spit out the poison, it's the blood that ties him directly to Jess, to his mother. If he does this, it would be as if he were to take an axe and cut each of them off at the root, sever them completely from the head. 

The lid pops off easy. He closes his eyes, nose, mind, and drinks. 

The worst part is that it goes down easier, with a few quick gulps rather than the struggle it was before. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about his body getting used to the blood he's forcing into himself, letting it slither up his arms and into every part of him. It tastes sour, different than beforehand, and he can't tell if it's real or his mind trying to reject it. He lets go of the jar and it drops to the ground with a sickening 'crack'. 

"Y'know, you gotta stop breaking those jars."

Sam wipes his arm across his face. "I don't give a shit."

"Alright, touchy, touchy." Azazel smirks. "Let's see what you can do."

He flexes his fingers out as they tingle, little sparks igniting what he knows is a monstrous weapon. He sucks in a breath, and then another, and then locks eyes with Azazel. The demon's eyes are normal, no gold or yellow in sight, but he can picture it, picture them peering over his mother's bed and down at Jake's body and up at-

Every piece of glass in the room shatters. The remaining windows crash forward, the bottles and liquids on the shelf splatter against the wall, and the vase of wilted flowers in the corner turns to shreds. It feels like a shockwave, all at once, and immediately there's a pounding in Sam's head that isn't distinguishable from the one in his fingers. He tastes blood and, lifting his fingers up to swipe under his nose, he realizes his nose is bleeding. The urge to lick is startling, and he quickly rubs his fingers against his jeans. 

"Not bad! You sure this is only your second time?"

He can still feel the blood on his upper lip. He responds, through clenched teeth, "Yes."

"Well then." Azazel opens his arms up, like a father welcoming his child home. Sam feels nauseous. Sam feels _powerful_. "I think it's time."

* * *

The plan is deceptively simple: sneak into his weirdly human home, track him down, and kill him. Of course, as Sam is always aware, having a plan and actually enacting the plan are two entirely different things. Azazel is extremely vague on what exactly killing him entails, which means that there's a good chance Sam never walks out of this. But Azazel seems to insist that this Ramiel is out of practice, having spent so many years on Earth, but Sam knows best that there's plenty out there to keep you trained.

The house itself is ornate, a mansion clearly built on demon deals and murders. It's almost what he expects of a supposed prince of hell, except for the fact that it's in 'the middle of nowhere, Ohio'. For a brief moment, his mind reminds him that he's just repeating Dean's old jokes, but he shuts that part of him up pretty quickly. There's something in him that screams at him to keep this part of his life separate from dean, from hunting, as if he isn't doing this for that. He shouldn't feel guilty. And yet he does, the feeling hanging on his back and twisting around his skull and puncturing its way through his hands and feet. It consumes him. Just like the blood.

He's equipped with scarcely little as he ducks behind a bush, being sure to hide in the shadows that the night provides. He was given a knife, sure, but it was plain silver; no extra markings, no special grooves, no demon power. He's once again reminded that this, that all of his actions going forward, are a test to see if he's worthy of the power Azazel intends to give him, a test that he either passes or dies to. His teeth puncture his lip and he can feel the small trickle of iron dripping into his mouth. He keeps moving.

Strategically speaking, the best entrance would be a window; there are a few that are carelessly left open, curtains blowing in the night breeze, beckoning him towards their safe passage. However, Sam has long since been dealing with monsters of the night, and he knows that there's bound to be tricks hidden within their golden depths. So, he draws himself closer to the ground and sneaks towards the back door. He doesn't know why, but there's some intuition bubbling inside him that whispers that this door, this route, is the right answer. 

His fingers find the cold metal of the handle, which he gently twists, only to find the door locked. The safety pin stuck in the corner of his jacket quickly comes loose, and he takes deep, calming breaths as he jams the lock just enough to pull the door open, wincing at the tiniest creeks. Suddenly, he's in, and he barely has time to marvel at the pristine hardwood flooring and elaborate arches before he's flat against a wall, eyes wide as he hears a noise creaking across the house. Out of reflex, his hand finds the handle of the knife tucked in his pocket. He peaks around the corner, and-

Nothing. Sam's cautious eyes dart across the layout of what appears to be an office space, but there doesn't seem to be a creature there. He takes a step forward, attempting to keep his feet light against the ground, and barely holds back a string of curses as a large, echo-y creak bounces around in the room. Giving up pretenses, he bolts into the room, knife out, waiting for an unknown figure to attack him at any moment. He takes a second to lament that Azazel didn't give him much information beyond 'use your power', because he has no idea what this demon-prince is meant to look like. Is he looking for a human, or is he looking for a weird amalgamation of human and monster, with horns and glowing eyes?

There's a sound from the corner of the room, and Sam turns just in time to get his answer; an older man, with whisky white hair and a long, elegant brown coat, stands across from him. His eyes glow a soft gold, which would seem harmless if not for the furrowed eyebrows and murderous expression. The man tilts his head, and bellows, "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Sam, in this moment, realizes his first mistake: the man doesn't seem prone to violence. Which, while ironic in many aspects that Sam is not willing to unpack at the moment, means that if he had come in here with full charm and puppy-dog eyes, claiming to be an interested historian or concerned neighbor from a few miles down, he likely would have had much easier access to the man before him.

Still, he holds his ground, and grits out, fingers clenched around the weapon before him. "Are you Ramiel?"

The man's eyebrow twitches, but otherwise he does not react. "How do you know that name?"

"You're a prince of hell, right?" Sam takes a step forward. "I came here to find you."

"For what purpose? To kill me?" Ramiel's laugh echoes out, cold and pointed, and he leans in towards Sam. "Young man, you don't know just how much trouble you've gotten yourself into."

Sam's cold glare does nothing against the man's golden eyes. "I know more than you think."

Ramiel grins. "With that knife? I'm sure you don't."

Sam tilts his head and, out of some bubbling sense of pride, he tosses the knife to the side. He stares back at Ramiel and then, lifting his hand, squeezes. 

It's difficult to get a grasp on Ramiel, Sam finds. He grunts out in pain as his hand and arm scream against the force he puts behind them, but he can't grasp the slippery coldness that he now knows represents a demon's soul- or what is left of it. He can barely reach the tail end before it seems to dart away from him, like it knows what Sam is trying to do. His head pounds and he drops his hand, barely resisting the urge to clutch at his temples. He darts his eyes upwards just before he's thrown backwards, limbs askew. The wall hits him with a harsh force, and he collapses against the ground, sucking in breaths like it's the only thing he knows how to do. Shit.

"C'mon little boy, back out now and I won't rip your skin from your bones, hmm? I may be retired…. but that doesn't mean I've forgotten everything."

Sam grasps the corner of the table in front of him and hoists himself up, spitting blood out from the corner of his mouth. Something sizzles up inside him, angry and vicious, as he hears the word "boy" come out of the demon's mouth. He blinks away the light behind his eyes and tries to focus on the room. There's scarce little that he can use against Ramiel. Books are the main accessory of the room, stacked upon bookshelves, absent of dust. There's an axe up on the wall, old and ancient looking, and- there.

Grinning, Sam makes eye contact with Ramiel once again. "Giving up so soon?"

Something flashes in those golden eyes, and Ramiel lurches towards Sam, who ducks out of the way and swipes a hand in front of himself. Power rushes forward in his fingers and a bookshelf tips forward and collapses on top of Ramiel with a sickening crack. It takes him a moment to process that it was him that knocked down the shelf ( _him_ , without even _touching_ it) before he remembers his plan. He turns and runs to the other side of the room where a glass case lays, embedded into the bookshelf. Gritting his teeth, he slams his fist into it, shattering the glass across the floor and sending blood splatters across his chest. He reaches inside, grabs the blade, and turns back to his opponent.

Sam has no real reason to believe this blade will work, sleek and gold with just a few words around the handle that are in a language he doesn't recognize; still, the metal feels hot in his hands as he lunges forward towards the figure who seems to have just climbed out, unscathed, from the bookshelf. Something screams in Sam's head, there's a bright white light, and then Ramiel's body lays on the floor, dead, covered in deep black blood. 

His first instinct is to scan the blade, which seemed to take out the demon prince in a single hit, but instead he drops the blade, kneels down near Ramiel's body, and tries to catch his breath. He keeps his eyes off the blood pooling around his knees and instead focuses on the man's eyes, which have turned into a hazel-brown, unlike the gold they had been earlier. He's on the verge of thinking this is a trick, that he just killed an innocent man, when behind him he hears a voice he's come to dread, "Well done, Sam."

Turning, Sam makes eye contact with the other demon, who's grinning as if he just won the best prize at the arcade. "Azazel."

"Well, I must say, you didn't take him out exactly as expected, but you demonstrated quick thinking. Always knew you had it in you. Now, to move on with the process…"

"I just…. Drink this?"

"Little more complicated. You see, to get where we're going, you have to go through a special… process, shall we say. Each of them involves a different prince. With Ramiel, well…" Azazel procures a large glass from behind him. "You have to bathe in his blood."

Sam stares up at Azazel in disbelief. His skin crawls, and he can already feel the meager contents of his stomach reaching his throat. " _Bathe_?"

"Not entirely but…. A glass full, poured on you, should do."

"Did whoever design these trials make them so deliberately… humiliating and disgusting?"

Something flashes in Azazel's eyes. "Lucifer designed them."

Sam's eyes travel back down to the body next to him as he tries to process what he must do, which was somehow, in some crazy turn of events, created by _Lucifer_. He feels like he should laugh. He settles for scratching the back of his palm before grasping the cold glass in his warm hands. The body before him isn't cold yet, as he tries to maneuver it enough to get the blood that is dribbling out of it into the glass. He feels shame flushing down his back. And still, they sit there in silence, as the oversized glass fills slowly up with pitch-black blood. 

Eventually, the body thuds back down on the ground, and Sam gulps as he stares down at the glass before him. He's hesitating, he knows, and Azazel is watching. For a brief moment, he wonders: what must Dean think of him, Bobby think of him? _What would his Dad say?_

His eyes squeeze shut as he tilts his head back, head towards the sky. It feels worthless now, hand grasped tight around the perfect example of his sins, but he prays. He doesn't know who or what is up there, but he hopes, _God_ , that he's not gone down the wrong path.

The blood is still warm as it touches his face, trickling down his nose and across his cheek and through the curve of his lips. And suddenly it comes in waves, splashing harshly across his bones, down his chest and into his heart, and it burns. It goes on forever, black liquid leaving it's stain on his skin, before the glass finally empties out and Sam is covered in black. It's a baptism of the corrupted sort, and Sam can barely resist the urge to claw the sticky, already drying blood off his skin. Before he can stop himself, he licks it off his lips, and he feels the power shoot straight from his tongue to his brain. His body feels alight, as if he were a firework just about to go off. He feels disgusting, but he feels _alive_.

"Congratulations Sam, we're already one step closer to our goal. How you feeling?"

Sam peels his eyes open, squinting against the light. His head is still tipped towards the ceiling. He stretches his fingers out and, lifting his hand up, he urges energy through his palm. The ceiling cracks, a line stretching from the corner of the room to the middle. He grins. The iron hangs heavy in his mouth. " _Good_ , actually."

* * *

_“Blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity and cleanse me from my sin”_

_Psalms 51:1_

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @nephilimjack! come scream at me or talk to me abt sam winchester i am Always down.


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